Menage a Trois
by PADavis
Summary: Pre Series. Dean takes a paying gig in Stockton, California. Should be easy. Silver, love triangles, ghost hunters, and Dean Whump for Merisha's birthday. Rated T for language.
1. Or Something Artsy Fartsy

Happy Birthday, Merisha! You asked for it and here it is. The back story of the ladle in my triple drabble "Cutlery". That means pre-season, angst, and plenty of Dean whump. Some of it gruesome. YAY!

A/N: The story is complete in three chapters. To stretch out Merisha's enjoyment and her anxiety—which of course is my only goal—this story will post weekly. Thanks to my readers/betas and co-conspirators: silver ruffian and Muffy Morrigan.

A/N: I know three words of Spanish, and can't pronounce even those correctly. No offense to anyone intended. The original spanish in this chapter could be blamed on babelfish and igoogle. Update! New and improved Spanish courtesy of LiafromBrazil. Thank you!

Shamless Plug: I have a new story appearing in a zine this month, June 2009: Blood Brothers 3. If you are interested in a copy, please contact the publisher at this address: TeaJunkie at comcast dot net You can also PM me or check the link in my profile page.

Disclaimer: For fun, not profit. I own nothing.

* * *

Sam looked good—really good. His jeans didn't even have a knee blown out, and they were long enough to catch under his heel. He was wearing a white shirt, kinda girly, but it was new. And he was wearing flip-flops. His hair was still a mop, bangs down in his eyes, and Dean could swear the kid's nose had gotten longer.

Sam looked tan, fit, and _relaxed_. Dean couldn't remember the last time Sam had looked that relaxed when he was living with them. His teen years had been one long teenage-hormone battle with Dad no matter what Dean did, and when Dad wasn't in the house, which was most of the time, and Sam needed a punching bag, Dean was right there.

He tried to remember the last time _he_ was relaxed when Sam was living at home. What did his teacher call it? She said Dean was as jumpy as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

Sam was walking with his girl across campus, laughing. God, he looked so happy.

And damn if Sam didn't suddenly swing his head up from saying something to Jessica and look right in Dean's direction. He hadn't lost his touch, even after two and a half years. Fading back slowly, Dean slipped between two sets of pedestrians and walked away, keeping a stand of trees between them.

The sun was almost at zenith. Checking his watch, he almost slapped himself. It was an hour and a half to Stockton from here, and he had an hour before his appointment. Crap. He risked a glance behind him to confirm that Sammy wasn't following him before sprinting toward the Impala.

He couldn't afford to screw up a paying job.

* * *

He usually avoided highways, and avoided highways in California like the plague, but there was no time to drop south around the Bay. That meant I84 across the Dumbarton Bridge, through Union City to Livermore, and he grudgingly realized, the 580 to I5 to Stockton. His stomach dropped a little bit when he couldn't reach the museum curator live but he left a message and hoped for the best.

Accelerating up Niles Canyon Road, he popped in _Master of Puppets_ and cranked up the volume. Dad was never going to excuse his foray into California without a payoff, especially when Dean was supposed to be twenty five hundred miles east in Tuskegee. If he brought in enough money, maybe the next time they met up in-person, Dad would overlook his side trip to see Sam. Even so, he was going to pay for this one way or another.

He'd probably get one of Dad's weird as shit assignments. Like restacking all the cars in Bobby's junkyard to form a pentagram using only dental floss and a pair of chopsticks. He laughed out loud. That was a year and a half ago and one hell of a lot of dental floss. And Bobby had helped him make a really big pair of chopsticks. Hydraullically powered. They were awesome.

Damn, he missed the old man. He hadn't seen him for almost five months since Bobby and Dad had gone at it the last time, shotgun cocked and everything. Dean thought about calling a million times, but Dad would know, he always knew, and Dean would be back to towing the Impala with his left nostril or digging a scale model of the MarianasTrench.

But that was one good thing about Dad. He would eventually forgive you your trespasses, and when he did they were gone, evaporated, like they'd never happened. But you sure as shit had to work for it. Dean spent the next hour fighting his way to Stockton, cutting over to I99 and driving due north to the Stockton Historical Society & Museum right in the center of the city. Through the stop and go traffic, he wondered what Bobby and Sam might have to do to get back in John's good graces.

That got him laughing again. Bobby would just go ahead and shoot Dad. But Sam? Who was he kidding? All Sam had to do was walk in the motel door and Dad would kill the fatted calf.

Dean scrubbed his face. So would he. He should know better than to check on Sam before a job. It always made him all introspective and emo.

Pulling into the museum parking lot at 1:23, he dodged a couple of tourists, and barreled through the front door to the information desk, skidding to a stop on the polished floor.

"I'm here to see, um" he consulted his note, "Ms. Barkley, please."

"I'll let her know you're here." As the receptionist reached for the phone, Dean looked around the lobby. It was an open air atrium, the arches cresting at least fifty feet up, and his eyes were drawn to a huge—mobile, or something artsy-fartsy—hanging from the ceiling. It was made up of metal struts, fabric, and stained glass and was rotating slowly overhead.

"Mr. Winchester?"

Dean spun, and my, oh my, if that was Ms. Barkley, he was going to be a happy man.

"Yeah." Clearing his throat, he tried again, smiling. "Yes. I'm Dean Winchester. Ms. Barkley? I'm sorry I'm late. I hope you got my voice mail."

"I'm Ms. Anderson. Mrs. Barkley is the curator of the museum. I'm an assistant curator." She pointed toward a door marked 'Offices' inset under a smaller arch just off the lobby. "If you'll come with me, please, Mr. Winchester?"

He held out his hand. "Please. Call me Dean. And I'll be glad to come with you anywhere."

Blushing, she shook his hand before stepping toward the door. "Right now, I'd just like you to _walk_ with me in this direction."

"And later, would you like to do something else with me?" His eyes lit up. "I'm free this evening."

She hushed him and opened the door, revealing a sterile hallway with closed doors on either side, a stark contrast to the lively displays and open air brightness of the museum lobby.

Ms. Anderson, her nametag only said 'M', opened the door announcing, "Mr. Winchester, Mrs. Barkley," before closing the door, leaving him alone with the curator.

She was quite beautiful, her hair changing to silver, back very erect, and a gleam in her eye that made Dean smile in response as he walked forward to shake her hand. She barely reached his shoulder but her attitude was big enough that it felt she was looking him straight in the eye.

"Call me Dean."

"Call me Victoria." She paused for a moment eyebrows up. "No?" Laughing, she sat, and gestured Dean toward a chair. "Vickie will be fine."

"I'm sorry, I don't really…"

"It's a Stockton joke, and you are probably too young to recognize the reference." She waved a hand at a large framed photo on the wall. Dean looked at it, frowned, and stood to get a closer look. Some people in western gear, standing around a very striking white haired woman. It wasn't until he was reading the signatures that he made the connection.

"That show—I remember that show. _Big Valley_, right? That's the guy who was in the _Six Million Dollar Man_." He tapped a finger on the glass. "She's older, but she reminds me of you." He looked back at her then at the picture. "Oh. Her name on the show was Victoria Barkley?"

"Just a coincidence, but an occasion for merriment in Stockton. My maiden name was McGhee. The actress is Barbara Stanwyck. The blonde is Lee Majors, and yes, that was his next series. The others' careers were a bit rockier. The man who played Jarrod," she joined him at the picture and pointed, "is probably best known for playing opposite Juliet Mills in "_The Nanny and the Professor_." Grimacing, she moved back to the desk, and sat gracefully. "Let's talk about why you're here."

"I got some of the details before I came. Why don't you tell me what you think is going on. What was the first thing you noticed?"

"Objects in the display cases moved overnight. We started to hear noises in the walls or floor. Tapping or scratching. When we checked the security cameras, they had either gone to static, or else showed nothing. The object was there, and the next moment, the object was here," she said, pointing at two spots on her desk. "We thought it was seismic activity at first but there hasn't been any unusual activity in the area."

"Do you know if anyone working here has a young daughter? Ten to thirteen years old?"

"Ahhh. I have no idea."

"I'll need to get that information. Has the activity increased? Changed?"

"The activity has been ramping up over the last few weeks. Toilet paper strewn around the rest rooms, soap dispensers empted, rugs moved… the list grows every day. It's starting to get dangerous for the staff. We called in a Miwok practitioner who conducted a beautiful cleansing ceremony but it did nothing but freshen the air."

"My friend Caleb, who called me about the job, he mentioned you called in some ghost hunters?"

"Please, Paranomal and Anomalous Researchers. They came after the new age mystic our receptionist called in." Opening her desk drawer, she held out a handful of crystals. "We're still finding these in the most unlikely places. At least he worked pro bono." The crystals went back in the drawer, and a neatly bound, glossy covered report was handed to him. "The PAR group set up equipment every night for a week, but found nothing more than what they called a 'cold spot' in one of the galleries."

"I'll have you show that to me in a few minutes." He flipped through the report for a moment. "Did they charge you?"

"They sent an invoice, certainly, but they also 'leaked' their presence to the local newspaper after agreeing to confidentiality. We deducted what we thought was a fair estimate for the free advertising the story provided and sent them an invoice for a dollar." She handed him a newspaper clipping from the Stockton Record and looked up. "Are you a native of California?"

"No, ma'am, um, Vickie, I'm not. Kansan."

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Virginian. I'm not sure I'll ever get used to this state. The press had a field day with the so-called paranormal researchers, but apparently found the Miwok ceremony and the mystic perfectly normal. We almost had to close our doors for a few days until the fervor died down." She accepted the article back and filed it again. "However, a friend of mine knows someone, who knows someone, and well, you must know how these things go. I heard from your friend Caleb two weeks later and here you are. Tell me, Dean, what is it that you are going to do?"

"First, I'm not going to talk to a newspaper. I'm a big believer in flying under the radar."

"And payment in cash upon completion. I appreciate the straightforwardness. What will you need to do your work?"

"Unsupervised access to the museum after hours. Trust me, for what I do, I don't need civilians in my way. I'll need to know exactly when this started, an inventory of what displays have changed, moved, been added to… recent acquisitions, records of any construction around the property. I'd like to see the room with the cold spot and talk to whoever is the most knowledgeable on the displays there." He looked up from the report. "Some things might get broken. Just 'cause I'm here, doesn't mean I did it. I don't want to get an invoice from you."

"Fine. Do you need to set up equipment?"

"I'll do anything I need to tonight."

"Do you know what is causing this?"

"Right now, I'd say you have a poltergeist. That's why I asked about girls ten to thirteen. You don't have to have a teenage girl to have a poltergeist but they seem to generate 'em sometimes. The cold spot sounds like an angry spirit, but I'm going to rule out poltergeist first."

It felt like the air in the room dropped a few degrees. Her friendly demeanor had turned arctic. She stared at him unblinking for a few moments. "You're another ghost hunter. I've already had ghost hunters in here. What," she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, "What are you going to do, Mr. Winchester, that hasn't been done before?"

He smiled broadly. "Succeed. Do we have an agreement?"

She looked up at him, and bit her lower lip. "Agreed."

* * *

This job was looking better and better. Mrs. Barkley had thawed and walked him out to find Ms. Anderson.

"Give him a tour of the silver room, Em, and get him anything he needs. We'll need to clear out the museum tonight. Let the security company know." She waved as she walked back to her office. "I'm sure you'll think of all the things I forgot."

Dean turned a blinding smile on Ms. Anderson.

"I'd love a tour."

She blushed again but started off at a brisk walk. "Mrs. Barkley said you were here about the, um, occurrences. The silver room hasn't been the center of the activity by any means."

"Vickie said that the room had a cold spot? I'd like to see that first." He slipped the EMF meter out of his pocket, flipped it on, and set the earpiece in his left ear.

She was sneaking looks toward him. "Is that music?"

He showed her the EMF. "No, this reacts to electro…"

"Electromagnetic frequencies?"

"Yeah, how did, oh, the ghost hunters talk about it? Tweedledum and Tweedledee?"

She laughed and nodded. "Theirs was more, well, professional looking."

"They all work the same. You just have to know how to use it." They walked into a display room and the EMF let out a deafening wail.

"Yahtzee." Tugging out the earbud, he gazed in awe at the EMF. "Can you show me the cold spot?"

The room wasn't large, maybe ten by fifteen feet, but with the overhead lighting dimmed, the walls seemed to disappear in shadow, while the brilliantly lit display cases seemed to float against the dark wood walls.

"We have silver from almost every era. Pioneers came to California from all areas of the world, for centuries. The oldest silver we have was brought by Spanish Don's during the subjugation and colonization of Mexico and California." She walked toward a display. "Some of the hallmarks on these pieces date them to the seventeenth century. This piece of Rodriguez Sanguino Sebastian silver was made in Jerez de los Caballeros around 1735."

Dean dutifully looked. Silver. "Where's the cold spot?"

Em ignored him and turned to another display. "This case has silver from the American pioneers moving West both before, during, and after the Gold Rush of 1849. Most of these pieces are English and German. It was amazing to find out how many women carried their ancestral silver through the hardships of a cross county wagon trip from the East Coast."

"Hmmm." More silver. "The cold spot?"

Em started to laugh. "Sorry, I get carried away. I wrote my doctoral thesis… it doesn't matter. The cold spot is here, in front of the Taxco silver."

He stepped forward and found it. Definitely cold. The lights on the EMF were strobing. He pulled out the earphone jack and the squeal filled the room before he turned the meter off. "Tell me about Taxco." He looked in the cabinet. "Not many forks and knives in there. For a display of silver."

"True, but this isn't a display of pioneer imported silver. This is a display of silver designed by William Spratling and his apprentices. The pieces date from the 1930's."

Dean turned and surveyed the room. "Have the displays been changed recently?"

"No, not changed. But we did just add a piece to the Taxco collection."

"How long ago?"

"Three months, almost to the day." She pointed at a pedestal standing to one side of the cabinet. "This bust of Spratling is sterling silver. It belonged to a local collector who met Spratling in the forties. Mrs. Gunderson remained close friends with him ntil he died in 1967. She donated almost all the Taxco pieces we have. There's a picture of her right there on the wall. The next picture is Mrs. Gunderson and Mr Spratling. When she died, we outbid the Museo Guillermo Spratling for it. This bust is a copy of the original already in their collection, so we felt we weren't depriving the citizens of Taxco by keeping it in the US."

Circling the bust, Dean asked. "Didn't the occurrences start three months ago?"

"Well, yes, but they couldn't be related."

"Tell me everything you know about William Spratling. Over coffee?"

"There's a Starbucks around the corner, but the Court House Café is across the street."

"Definitely the Café. I missed lunch."

She checked her watch. "Forget the Café. If you want lunch, Casa Flores next door. The fish tacos are to die for. Wait right here while I get my purse."

* * *

The fish tacos were—spectacular. So was dinner at Valley Brew after he spent the afternoon reviewing the museum records. The coffee at her place after dinner was probably good, but she was better. Much better. Later, after a shower, she watched him dress.

"Do you have to go tonight?"

"Best time for my line of work."

"I can't believe you're a ghost hunter."

"Hunter, Em, hunter." She padded to the kitchen and brought back a steaming mug of coffee. He sniffed appreciatively and gulped down half of it before kissing her and heading for the door. "I'll see you in the morning."

The drive back to the museum was uneventful and for once, he was able to park right by the staff entrance to load his duffel. Paying gigs had their perks. The door opened easily with the key and ID Em had given him, and the alarm system disarmed itself when he entered the code. Once in the museum security office, he turned on the lights, another perk, and turned off the alarms and sensors in the galleries before walking through to the lobby, shotgun in hand.

The EMT screamed again. This was feeling more and more like an angry spirit, but he'd brought the wards for a poltergeist, and first set about installing them in different rooms in the museum. Nothing moved or groaned or tapped as he worked, which convinced him that he was dealing with an angry spirit since poltergeists were usually pissed off when you did this part. Still, he was cautious when he entered the silver room to deposit the final ward behind the Taxco silver cabinet.

Breathing out in relief when nothing happened, he approached the bust and tapped on the glass case surrounding it. "Okay, ghostey, come on out. I'm going to take the head. I'm going to break the glass. Ollie ollie oxen free." The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and his breath turned white. His trigger finger automatically tightened as he slowly turned.

It was Mrs. Gunderson, dressed for a party, exactly as she was in the photo on the wall behind him. She flickered and appeared directly in front of him.

"Bill? Is that you?" She reached for him. "I've missed you so much. Taxco was so long ago."

"Not him." The sound of the shotgun thundered in the small room. He cocked the gun again and started to back out the door. Now that he knew who it was, he knew what to do. Next step, salt and burn, and this job was done.

His breath went white again. She was fast. He spun and found himself face to face with… a man? Another spirit?

"Senor Spratling? Guillermo?"

Another shot, another cloud of salt, and a reload. Two spirits, and damn if they both didn't think he was the silver guy, Spratling. As Dean stepped out of the room and toward the lobby, both spirits materialized in the doorway, both gesturing, and both calling to him. He blew them to shreds, and backed up. They materialized almost instantly, facing each other.

Mrs. Gunderson screamed, "You! You gigolo."

_"'Ramera!"_

"What are you doing near Bill? Haven't you done enough?"

___"¡Yo lo amaba, bitch! _¿No fue de esto que él le llamó? Bitch?"

"Only when _you_ were around." She flickered and suddenly was there/here, right next to Dean, radiating cold off in waves. "Bill is here to see me!" She reached for him, still focused on the male spirit. "Aren't you, my darling?"

Dean took a step toward the lobby, which was enough to bring their full attention back on him. He had just enough time to realize that that was going to be a very bad thing before he was thrown backwards, slamming onto his back, spinning and skidding until he finally ran head and shoulders into the reception desk.

He held his breath, gun trained. The spirits didn't reappear. The air huffed out of him in relief. Man, he got out of that in one piece. He started to get up, but stopped to hold his head, eyes closed, while the room spun around him. There was plenty of time to toast Gunderson's body tonight. The man would have to wait until tomorrow.

He heard something. A ping. He opened his eyes just as he heard the ping again, then a third time, and watched a bolt and washer hit the floor and bounce toward him. There was a low groaning sound. More bolts fell.

He looked up. The mobile ripped from the ceiling and fell with a shriek of metal and a cloud of plaster dust. And he was dead center beneath it.

Oh, hell.

* * *

Properly translated Spanish:

_Ramera_ = whore  
_¡Yo lo amaba, bitch! ¿No fue de esto que él le llamó? Bitch?_ = I loved him, you bitch! Isn't that what he called you?, bitch?


	2. No Habla Español, You Dick

A/N: Hope you liked the surprise, Merisha. I couldn't resist a teensy mention of another actor you had a crush on when you were a toddler. Last year, it was zombies and Adrian Paul. Not that there's a connection there, of course. This year, she admitted to a fetish for Lee Majors.

A/N 2: Kudos to wave obscura and LiaFromBrazil for fixing my pitiful Spanish. Ariadna also offered to help, and I thank you very much, but your email address was deleted from your review by the fanfic site. I fixed the Spanish in Chapter 1. There's just a teensy bit more in this chapter and the next, but it was correct when they gave it to me. If there are any remaining errors, they are certainly all my responsibility.

* * *

He rolled like his life depended on it. And it did. If he didn't get the fuck out from under the mobile he was going to be a wet spot on the floor. Arms tight to his chest, he threw himself to one side, feeling a breeze as the construction passed him and hit the floor, one outthrust metal arm slapping down across his right hip and thigh before he could get clear.

He got on his stomach, put his arms over his head, and squeezed his eyes shut. Glass shattered with bright hard noises. Something whacked his entire left side, ankle to shoulder. The breath he'd been holding came out in a grunt but he didn't move until the last crystalline noise faded.

Cautiously raising his head, he heard and felt a shower of glass drop out of his hair and rain to the floor. The armature of the mobile had snapped and bent, and was canted to one side on top of the wreckage of the reception desk. Slender metals rods like spider legs trailed across the floor; some spiked into the air, still slowly swaying with residual kinetic energy.

He heard an ungodly din from the direction of the silver room. Looked like the spirits were playing together. He pushed up on his hands, hissing when he drove a small piece of glass into his palm. The floor was white with a confetti of glass shards, splinters of wood, and plaster dust from the ceiling. The only place that looked clear for yards around was the Dean-shaped area right underneath him. Getting up on his feet, he brushed at his hair and shook himself, dislodging as much glass as he could.

Not thinking, he shifted his weight onto his right leg, and almost went down to the floor. His hip was screwed. Slapping a hand on it, he breathed deeply until the burning sensation died down. Shit.

Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he felt something on his left arm and leg. In fact, there were things clamoring for attention all up and down his left side. He took a deep breath, and risked a look. His eyes widened involuntarily. His clothes were embedded with glass shards thrown out by the collapsing mobile and ran in a line from his shoulder down his arm, and from his chest to his ankle. Damn.

He carefully plucked out a shard. Then another, set in deeper. His breath hitched and blood starting trickling down his arm. He needed to sit down or he was going to keel over. Snagging his shotgun, he limped to a bench set against one wall. Tugging at his long-sleeve shirt had him hissing and cursing, but it finally came off the last jagged edge of glass. His jeans had caught the shards aimed at his leg and most of the pieces dropped off when he brushed them with his wadded up shirt.

He caught sight of his watch and groaned. There was a scratch all the way across the crystal. Those goddamn ghosts had some 'splaining to do.

And so was Em. What hadn't she told him about Bill—Guillermo—William Spratling?

He stood and took an unguarded step forward and almost fell again. Limping back to the security office, he snagged his duffel, and exited the building as gracefully as he could.

* * *

It was almost dawn when he threw the shovel into the Impala's trunk. Mrs. Gunderson had been rich which made the cemetery easy to find but hard to get into. And her coffin was state of the art. And she was fresh. He was beat.

He'd wrapped the worst of the cuts in his arm before he left the museum parking lot, but the bandages were soaked again and blood was dripping from a few of them. Pulling a pair of jeans out of his duffel, he changed right there in the cemetery, dropping his now filthy jeans into the trunk for a wash later. His cuts pulled every time he moved his left arm, but that was nothing compared to his hip. He'd taken eight ibuprofen just to keep going through the dig, but the ache was starting to reach the teeth-chattering hand-shaking level. And since it was just him, when he found a motel and got a room, he was going to moan because it _really_ hurt.

There was a litter of Motel 6's on the way into the city, and it was easy enough to work his way back to the I5 and select one. He was expecting cowboy pictures on the wall, but got institutional seascapes. His phone was about dead, so he plugged it into the charger before climbing into a shower, not coming out until his fingertips were wrinkled. Pulling out the first aid kit, he flicked on the TV for background noise and was surprised to come upon an episode of _The Big Valley_. He checked the room clock—five o'clock in the morning. No wonder they were showing old television shows. Maybe they'd show Bonanza next.

His hip looked like shit. Black bruises went from his waist to half way down his thigh. Just thinking about touching it made his head hurt. He gingerly used his fingertips to apply some liniment, and gradually increased the pressure as he rubbed it into the skin. Most of the cuts on his arm were minor, but there was still some imbedded glass he had to root out before he cleaned everything again and re-bandaged his arm. He dipped back into the kit, hoping to find something stronger than ibuprofen, but only one pill dropped out of the bottle of oxycontin when he opened it. He swallowed the pill and most of a bottle of water before slowly lowering himself onto the bed. Once settled and the pillows just so, the smell of the liniment both familiar and nostalgic, he allowed himself a long moan. Smiling to himself, he was asleep in seconds.

* * *

Maybe in a week or two, he'd be grateful that his phone didn't ring until nine. Right then, after less than four hours of sleep, it seemed like his head was going to fall off. He rolled toward the phone, right onto his hip. "Goddamn it to hell!" He fumbled for the cell, reeling it and the charger to him by the power cord, answered the call and barked, "This had better be good."

"_Dean?"_ A man's voice. Not Dad.

"No, Tinkerbelle. Who's this?"

"_What the hell did you do to the museum?"_

Blinking, he pulled himself up to lean against the headboard, the pain from his hip dragging out a groan. When his breath evened out, he said, "Caleb? It, um, fell on me."

"_I know that, you twit. I told Mrs. Barkley that you were unlikely to climb fifty feet to deliberately pull some god forsaken artistic thing to the ground, but they had to close the museum. You should have called her."_

"I might have left her a voice mail. What else was I going to do, Cal? It's not like I have her home phone number."

"_Call her at this number. And yes, I'll wait an hour for you to find a piece of paper and a pen."_

"'Oh, ye of little faith'. There's one of each of those right here by the phone. This is a high class establishment."

"_Not a by-the-hour? That _is_ a step up for you."_

He scribbled down the number. "Thanks, Caleb. I'll call her right now."

"_Dean, your Daddy called looking for you. Were you supposed to be in Alabama right about now?"_

"Yeah, probably. Do you know where he is?"

"_Here getting ammo last week. He could be anywhere by now. Look, I didn't tell him anything, but you'd better call." _

"Thanks, man. I'll call him right after I talk to Mrs. B. "

"_Are you alright?"_

"Yeah. Thanks for covering for me. I owe you."

"_You do. Remember I fronted you that last load of ammo for the Eagle."_

He scrubbed his face. "Sorry, Caleb. I'll pay you…"

"_Grovel later. Call that woman or you aren't going to collect a dime."_

He called Dad first, not sure how to do anything else. Talked to voicemail, because that's all he knew how to do too these days. "Dad, I'm finishing a paying gig in Cali. I should be able to leave for Tuskegee tomorrow, maybe Thursday. It's a paying gig, oh, yeah, already said that. I really needed the cash, and you always said paying gigs were, well, worth doing. Ever hear of two ghosts attached…"

The beep at the end of the message cut him off. He drank what was left of the bottle of water on the bedside table, and called Vickie.

"_Yes."_

"Vic—Mrs. Barkley, this is Dean Winchester." He closed his eyes.

"_Where are you, Mr. Winchester? Not here at my museum, I take it. The museum that you destroyed?"_

"Ma'am, that's going a bit far. I did not drop the mobile. The ghosts did."

"_Ghosts? You mean there's more than one?" _

"You're from Virginia. You said that, didn't you? You must know what I'm talking about. The East Coast is hip deep in phenomena… so yes, there were two. And they dropped whatever that thing was on me. Um, I'm sorry about the things that broke."

He heard a prolonged sigh. _"I agreed, didn't I? Not to blame you for property damage?"_

"Yeah, you did."

"_I didn't really think you climbed up there and pulled it down."_

"No, Ma'am."

"_They are going to start hurting people now?"_

"Yes, Ma'am."

"_Fine."_ There was a pause_. "Dean."_ An indrawn breath. _"I want to trust that you are telling the truth." _

"I was only able to take care of half of the problem last night. I'll need to talk to Em again, but keep the place closed. Please. No one inside, not even to clean."

"_Very well, but I expect a full report from you when this is over."_

He laughed. "I'll tell you what happened when we talk. I don't do fancy binding."

"_I knew there was a reason I trusted you. And I will forgive the breaking of the installation. Keep me informed, will you?"_

"Yes, Ma'am."

"_It's Vickie."_

"Thanks." Hanging up, he rubbed his eyes. Research next, but coffee first, and the coffee maker was on the other side of the room. He got himself seated on the edge of the bed, and if he'd had to use his hands to drag his right leg over, at least he was able to move. Standing up, and careful to keep all of his weight on his left leg, he took a breath, held it, and limped to the coffee and the ibuprofen from yesterday.

He finally settled back on the bed with his laptop, since no amount of repositioning made sitting at the table comfortable. After two hours, he was staring at a yet another picture of William Spratling. Bill was shaking hands with a thin Orson Wells. According to the caption, the picture was taken just after the release of a movie about Spratling called _'The Man from New Orleans'_ in 1948. The guy had his own movie. In the background of the photograph, Dean found a familiar looking dark young man staring intently at Spratling.

It was time to hit the library. He took two more ibuprofen, and limped out to the car. Vickie answered on the first ring and gave him Em's cell number. She directed him to the Central Library and agreed to meet him there a few hours later.

"_Are you alright? Vickie said the mobile dropped on you?"_

"I'm fine."

_"Good. I'll meet you in a couple of hours."_

"See you at four."

* * *

Spratling was an expatriate. He moved to Mexico in 1929 and made his home there until he died in a car accident in 1967. Americans had certainly been to visit him—one article mentioned a coterie of older women who apparently moved to Mexico to be closer to him. Which might have impressed Dean more, because no one younger or older had ever moved closer to him, but it didn't sound like a harem. Most of the books and articles that said anything about Spratling's personal life suggested he was gay. That might explain how 'Silver Bill' had picked up a young male admirer.

Dean was impressed. The guy knew almost everyone in politics and Hollywood, he was adventurous—flying to Alaska, teaching himself how to sail, starting and losing one business just to start another. Dean fingered a picture of a necklace Spratling had designed. Bill had single handedly revived silver-working in Taxco. But Dean didn't look anything at all like the guy, which just proved again that spirits were nuts.

Dean wasn't clear what relationship Mrs. Gunderson had with Bill. He would have been one hundred and four this year, if he'd lived, while Gunderson had died at eighty-three. He scratched his chin. Maybe she saw Spratling as a father figure—or she didn't realize he was gay. Or else he wasn't gay, and they'd done a tango. Something, at least, had been going on to make her and Juan Valdez duke it out last night.

He limped to the window and stared out at the street. Kneeding his hip, he leaned against the sill and idly watched an SUV trying to parallel park. The space was clearly too small for the vehicle, but the driver kept trying. Dean winced when the SUV locked wheel wells with the car in front. He winced again as he worked his fingers into the muscles on his hip.

Leaning on the wide marble sill, he walked down the length of the windows, turned carefully at the wall, and paced back. Moving usually helped him figure stuff out, put together unrelated facts some case research uncovered, but today between the pain in his hip, his recent recon to see Sam, and maybe because he was overdosing on ibuprofen, he was having trouble staying focused. He'd found zilch on the second silver bust in the museum but a lot on the Americans who moved to Taxco, like Mrs. Gunderson, to form an expatriate community. Dean couldn't imagine doing that. Leaving everyone he loved and everything he knew for something unknown? Too bad for him the rest of his family didn't have any trouble with it.

A glance out the window made him stop his third or fourth circuit. The driver of the SUV was arguing with someone. There was a lot of arm waving and pointing. Dean shook his head. There were plenty of spaces. All that driver had to do was stop trying to squeeze that one. Dean limped back and forth. Maybe that's what it was like for Sam. He kept trying to squeeze himself into the family business space when it was too small for him.

Expatriate was the perfect word for Sam. It meant ''out of the fatherland'. That made him laugh—Sam as a runaway from the World of Winchester. That would make him and Dad commies, or fascists maybe, and his brother a noble refugee moving to the Free Democracy of Sam in NormalWorld. No wonder Sam wouldn't call back. He'd adopted Stanford and college as his new homeland and here was Dean giving him a ring from Nazi headquarters in the 'vaterland'. No, not Nazi headquarters. Dean was just calling from where Sam had left him. In the World of Dad.

Sighing, he turned and limped back to his table, got his leg propped up on a footstool, and picked up the next book in his stack.

* * *

"There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you." She pushed a pile of books to one side, replaced them with the armload of papers and books she was carrying, and sat opposite him. "I brought my thesis notes on Spratling."

She was wearing shorts and strappy sandals today, her hair down around her shoulders, and she was even more beautiful than yesterday. He smiled appreciatively before checking his watch through the scratched face. "Oh, sorry." He closed the book in front of him, and selected a book laying open to his right. Turning it toward her, he tapped on a picture.

"Do you recognize him?" He reached for another book and showed a second picture to her. "He's in this picture, too. He called me 'Guillermo' last night."

She looked up, eyes wide. "He spoke to you? He couldn't have. He's dead. He's been dead since 1969."

He tapped a pencil on his lower lip. "Two years after Spratling died in the auto-accident. Was this guy involved in the accident in any way?"

"Oh, no. Bill was driving too fast and lost control of his car."

"But you know who he is," pointing at the picture again.

"That's Carlos. Carlos Rivera. He was very close to Bill the last few years of his life."

"Close, as in, gay lover close?"

"That's possible, but remember there's no proof that Spratling was gay." She pulled out a folder of xerox'd pages. "I know what the books say, but it's all conjecture. He never dated a man or a woman. But I don't see what that has to do with Carlos."

"What do you know about him? Is he buried nearby?"

She looked puzzled. "Buried? No, Carlos was buried near Taxco." She pulled out another folder. "There was a movement to have his body moved to the Santa Prisca Cathedral cemetery but it failed. They were very orthodox in Mexico back then—back in the sixties, that is, and the request was turned down."

"Orthodox?"

"Carlos committed suicide. Sometimes they aren't allowed to be buried on hallowed ground."

"Does anyone know why he did it?"

"That we are sure of." She selected a page and handed it to him. "This is a copy of the suicide note."

Dean looked at the page and pushed it back. Cocking an eyebrow, he said, "It's in Spanish."

She snorted and looked down. "You are definitely not from California. Alright, long and short, Carlos was in possibly unrequited love with Bill, and killed himself because he couldn't live without, um, suffice it to say, it's all about Bill."

"Guillermo."

"He really spoke to you? Carlos?"

"It's not really him. More like a memory of him, like a pattern—well, it's hard to explain. Something about him is attached to that bust. And so was Mrs. Gunderson."

"What? You saw her too? That's crazy. Those idiots Ed and Harry? From the PAR team? They never saw anything and they were here a week."

"They're amateurs."

"They aren't any younger than you, maybe older."

"Trust me. I've been doing this a long time." He started massaging his hip again. "So, what do you know about the bust?"

She leaned back and brought up her feet onto the table, crossing one ankle over the other. "I thought you would never ask."

He couldn't help but grin back. "Oh, baby, I'll always ask." Her cheeks flushed. "Um. How long did Mrs. Gunderson own it?"

"What?"

"When did she get the head?"

"Just a few days before she died. Carlos had it commissioned. His mother had it until her death when it came up for auction. Mrs. Gunderson was very excited to win it. She's been trying to buy it for years. It was just tragic, really. She finally had the bust and died in a car accident before she could enjoy it."

"A car accident. Is the bust solid silver?"

"I don't think so. We weren't buying it for the silver content so it didn't matter to us."

Yahtzee.

* * *

His key and pass still worked, and once back in the museum's security office, he made sure the alarms were still off before limping toward the silver room, salt gun cocked. The EMF was quiet as he picked his way through the lobby and slipped into the room.

Tonight was simple. Break the bust open, salt and burn whatever Carlos might have put inside, and he was done. And if that didn't do it, burn the silver head. Which would be awesomly cool. He'd have to burn the head no matter what.

He lifted a crowbar bar out of his duffel, and in one broad stroke, took out the display and sent the bust onto the floor in a shower of glass. He swung the crowbar over his head, and damning his hip, brought it down with a crack across the center of the bust.

Nothing happened.

He shrugged and swung again, hissing as the pain in his hip lanced down his leg. The crowbar stopped so suddenly, he almost went ass first into the glass. The crowbar wouldn't move. He couldn't move. The EMF squealed uselessly in his pocket.

The voice was soft and breathy sounding. "Guillermo?" Carlos flickered into view. "¡Usted está aquí! ¡Usted volvió a mí!"

He gritted his teeth. "No habla español, you dick." Carlos reached out and touched his face, cupping Dean's chin, oblivious as spirits always were.

"Mi amor."

Dean tried to flinch away from the corpse cold hands on his face. "I'm not your goddamn amor!" Carlos pulled him roughly forward and kissed him. With tongue. Cold radiated out from his mouth, down his throat, his eyes were frosting up. He could move suddenly and windmilled his arms, struggling to back away. When he broke free, he dragged the back of his hand across his mouth.

The EMF let out a piercing squeal and went dead. His breath fogged in front of him.

"Bill? You came back!"

It was Mrs. Gunderson.

Oh, hell.

* * *

A/N 3: Adder574 asked for a Ghost Facers connection. Glad to oblige.

Spanish translations:  
¡Usted está aquí! ¡Usted volvió a mí! = You are here! You've come back to me.  
Mi amor = my love.


	3. I’m Not Stealing It Or Anything

Carlos' head twisted around so far and so fast that if he'd been alive he would have snapped his own neck. The spirit flickered, but kept both frigid hands clamped to Dean's face.

"_No te preocupes, mi amor. No voy a permitir que ella se acerca a ti!"_

"You won't let _ME_ near him?" Her voice was shrill, unreal, nails on a blackboard. "You caused that accident."

"I did not!"

The cold seemed to be working its way right into his brain. Either he had learned Spanish in the last minute or Carlos was speaking in English. "Carlos. Look at me." Carlos' head slowly turned back towards him. It was like _The Exorcist_. Kinda awesome. As long as he doesn't go for another kiss.

"_Si, Guillermo?"_

"I, ah, did love you."

Mrs. Gunderson screamed. Dean thought his ears would start to bleed. Carlos's face, though, lit up like a Christmas tree. "You really did?"

He gazed soulfully into Carlos' eyes and said, "Yes. I did. But I loved her more."

Another screech and Mrs. Gunderson was pressed to his side, his front, his …. He yelped as her left hand snaked down inside his jeans and then up, cupping his dick, while her right hand slapped tight on his ass. "Holy shit, lady, grab something else!"

"You do love me!" Her lips locked on his mouth.

No tongue, but he was freezing again. It was worse than swimming. His balls were going to climb right up into his body if she didn't let the fuck go. And what he was about to do—was kissing ass goodbye. His ice cold ass goodbye. That's what he was doing.

"Like a little sister. Enid, I loved you like a dear, dear sister."

Carlos started to laugh. Or maybe scream. Hard to tell with angry, insane, spirits. But it did the trick. Mrs. G's hands disappeared and she flickered _there_ to face off with Carlos. Dean gasped and fell to his knees, breath frosting in front of him, the crowbar clanging to the floor, dropped out of numb hands, the sound quickly overwhelmed by the sound of breaking glass. The cases around him were shaking, the silver pieces inside starting to dance and jitter on the shelves as the large panes of display glass cracked and shattered.

Silver was flying through the room, skimming over his head, caroming off walls, crashing into other pieces midair… he ducked as a platter frisbee'd in his direction, only to have a silver comb bounce off his shoulder. Diving for the bust, oddly quiescent in the hailstorm of cutlery and tea sets rebounding off the walls, he scuttled on his hands and knees back to his duffel by one wall.

Holding the bust upside down between his knees, he found and tugged out a rubber plug from the base. A handful of salt went into the hollow center followed by a couple of good squeezes of lighter fluid. The room got deathly still as he held his lighter to the bust and eerie blue actinic flames began to waver and coil over the bust. "Gotcha."

Huffing in relief, he looked up, just in time to see Carlos flicker in front of him. Dean was snatched to his feet and pinned to the wall behind him. The bust, fee of support, tipped to its side, burning lighter fluid spilling on the floor. Carlos's mouth was moving but all Dean could hear was the roar of fire.

Mrs. Gunderson was in the center of the room, head back, mouth open, flames lapping around her feet and the hem of her dress. She gestured and the room came alive again, silver and glass lifting off the floor and rising slowly, spinning and revolving around her like a madman's solar system. And like a solar system, when the center exploded, Mrs. G's image dispersing in flame as if she'd gone nova, the silver flew out from the center.

Dean threw an arm up to protect his face just as something punched him in the chest. He sagged back and sat down hard as his legs went out from under him, leaning heavily against the wall. "Really gotcha this time." He sucked in a huge breath and his vision whited out, the room washing out in front of him. He scrunched his eyes shut as the pain in his chest made his back arch, cracking his head backwards into the wall. Okay, no deep breaths.

He cracked an eye open and looked down, and felt bile rise in his throat. There was something stuck in him. He'd been stabbed with a—ladle? A silver ladle? There was the cup part that scooped up soup, which meant the handle was inside him, rammed in below his ribs.

He tilted his head back slowly to rest it against the wall. Oh hell. If Dad found out about this he'd never live it down. He could see him now, drinking a beer, grinning and telling anyone who would listen about his macho son Dean getting a girly kitchen tool stuck in him. What would be more embarrassing? A whisk?

Now, a knife would have been manly. He was going to have to go to the hospital and tell them he was running with a _ladle_. Shit. Maybe he'd been serving punch in those little glasses with the tiny round handles you couldn't put a finger through. Or serving something else freaking gay, like consommé, or ratatouie or that whatever you call it, gazpachinko.

The room looked like a tornado had gone through it, and in some ways, one had, but after a little clean up and new glass, the museum would have the room back in order in no time. A hint of movement in one corner had him sighing in frustration. Carlos' image was reflected in the broken glass of a display cabinet. This wasn't over. Tugging the duffel to him, he packed what he could reach. The distant crowbar was going to have to be a present to the museum since there was no way he was going to be leaning over to get something off the floor once he got on his feet. Hooking a foot around the bust, now thankfully not on fire, he rolled it closer, and hissing, tried not to burn his hands as he juggled it to rest on top of the duffel.

Now, strap over shoulder. One hand down and onto his knees. One foot on the floor. Up slowly, bracing against the wall, until he was standing, one hand holding the ladle still. When he could breathe again, he lurched for the door and picked his way to the lobby. The exit door was suddenly right in front of him. He pushed his way through, missed the step, and stumbled, his hip screaming at him, and he would have hit the ground if someone hadn't grabbed his arm.

"Dad?

"What? No, it's me. Em. Are you alright?"

He blinked. "Not supposed to be here. Supposed to be far away. Not safe yet." God, he couldn't even talk. "Got one more thing to do, then it's over." He let go of the ladle and brought his arm up, making the universal phone gesture toward his ear. "Go. I'll call."

Her eyes widened, focused on something, focused on his hand. Turning his head, he regarded it with surprise. It was black with something. The smell hit the back of his throat and he almost gagged. Blood. "Sorry." He wiped his hand off on his jeans. "Be fine."

"What happened? I know you were limping earlier but… what's that?" Her voice went up two octaves. "What are you doing with that ladle?"

"Umm. I'm not stealing it or anything." She reached for the scoop unthinking and he slapped her hand away. "Don't touch."

"Where's the rest of it?"

He closed his eyes. "Come on, Em. I need to finish this. Will you help me?"

"Oh my God." Her hands clamped on his arm. "It's in you? The rest of it is in you? But that's a thirteen inch solid silver... oh my God, it's in you?"

"Perfectly safe and sound. Em, will you help me? I need to…" She was going to scream or faint. "Em! Em! Look at me. It's going to be okay." He waved his hand to the far side of the parking lot. "Help me over there. Got to burn Bill's head."

She nodded, mouth open, and walked next to him, her eyes locked on the ladle. Her voice was breathy. "Don't you want to pull it out? No, you can't, can you? I've seen that on TV. But shouldn't you pull it out or, oh god, if you pull it out you'll bleed to death, right?"

"They'll get it out at the hospital."

"Right, hospital. I'll call 911."

"In a minute. Here. Hold this." Dropping the bust, now cool to the touch, in her hands, he pointed out a metal table and bench by the sidewalk, set a few feet from one of the lamps illuminating the museum grounds and parking lot. "There. Put the head on the table." The duffel went on the bench and he sat heavily next to it.

"What should I do?"

"Walk to your car and wait for me." He pointed a chin back toward the Impala and her sedan, looking ridiculously tiny, parked next to it. She shook her head. "Alright, you can wait but get over there," he pointed to a spot several yards away. "Wait there, but if I tell you to run, run."

She nodded. "I'll stay. What are you doing to the bust?"

"Pretty sure I have to burn it. Is there anything you didn't tell me about the bust? Something that would connect Carlos to it?"

"Connect Carlos? He had it commissioned and owned it. There was a rumor that he had the foundry add a few drops of his blood to the silver before it was poured—oh, is that what you meant?"

"That would do it."

"But, it's silver. You can't burn silver."

Rooting in the duffel, he extracted a plastic sandwich bag and held it up, glancing at Em with a grin. "Secret weapon." He unpacked a wooden popsicle stick, a slim metal detonator, and something that looked like a golfball-sized piece of Play-Doh once he'd carefully unwrapped it. This was Jefferson's 'Don't-use-this-unless-you-have-absolutely-no-other-choice-and-don't-use-it-then-either-because-you-are-not-James-Bond-and-you-are-not-living-in-a-movie-but-all-you-Winchesters-are-batfuck-crazy' and he was pretty sure Jeff had said some things after that about phosphorus and chemical interactions with oxygen, but Dean had just tuned him out and asked if it came in different colors.

Holding the clay between two fingers, he tucked it up inside the bust, pressing it into place with the stick. Satisfied, he carefully primed the detonator and inserted it, letting the cord string out onto the table. Even in the dim illumination the lamp provided, it was clear that his vision was starting to gray around the edges. And it was getting harder to breathe. His arms were getting awfully heavy, but they held him up long enough to get his feet back under him and stand. "Would you take the duffel?" When she didn't reply, he carefully turned his head. "Em?"

She had that 'deer in the headlights' look, eyes locked on something off to his right. His breath misted in front of him. He couldn't spin, but he could step back and bring the saltgun up to bear, but rather than blasting something, he found himself flat on his back, pain sheeting up his side and spiking straight up his chest and into his brain. He still had the shotgun but his hands were shaking so badly he wasn't sure he could pull the trigger. He sucked in air, not sure how things could hurt more. "Em, are you alright? Stay where you are. Em?"

"I'm okay."

She was probably pretty far from it. He rolled to one side, grunting in pain as involuntary tears gathered in his eyes. Goddamn spirits. He pushed himself up on one arm. Carlos was flickering by the table, intent on the bust.

"Em. I'm going to distract Carlos. When he comes over here, I need you to go to the table and pull the cord. Gently. Just a tug. The cord will come loose. Can you do that?"

"I, I think so."

"Good. After you do that, I want you to turn tail and run back to the cars. Understand?"

"I didn't think it was real. I didn't think you were lying but it's not supposed to be real."

"Em, will you run back to the car?" Carlos turned toward her. "Em, I need you to promise."

"Yes, yes I will."

Pulling in a breath, he braced the gun against his side, and called out, "Carlos! Lover boy! I'm over here, you freak. Come to Bill." And Carlos was _there_, leaning in again, arctic air gusting through his hair.

"Em! Now—pull the cord. Then _RUN_." For his part, he pulled the trigger, salt dispersing the spirit and falling back, pattering on his jeans, but it was the ladle vibrating in his chest that stole his breath.

* * *

"Dean? Oh, god, Dean! Can you hear me?"

"Mmmm."

"Oh, thank … called 911. I don't know … how long … I can call?"

That didn't make any sense. His eyes weren't working. "Use m'cell." He jerked his arm up and it fell back on his pocket. His fingers weren't working too well, felt more like sausages.

"Dean, are you back?"

"Where'd I go?"

"Your phone. Who ... call?"

"Caleb?"

"Got it."

He drifted, jerking to attention when he heard her talking. Her. Em.

"Ah, hello, um, Caleb? I'm a friend of Dean Winchester's. Em. Em Anderson. I… yes, I'll talk to him. Hello, Mr. Winchester? I'm… he's right here but he's not… Stockton. Dean's been…ah, hold on."

There was a hand on his shoulder. "Dean, your Dad wants to talk to you."

"Dad? Where is he?" He rolled his head. "Dad?"

"On the phone. Here."

"What, Dad?"

"Hold on, Mr., okay, John, I need to put it to his ear. No, he's not alright! I tried to tell you. Yes, I called 911, they should have been here by now. The hospital's just a few blocks away, for God's sake. No, I can't get him there by myself and it's the middle of the night… Its' been, I don't know, but I called you to tell you to come to Stockton. Dean's hurt, I don't know how badly, and he'll be in the…"

"Where's Dad?" He tried to move his hand but was pretty sure nothing happened.

Something on his ear. _"Dean, damnit, Dean, can you hear me?" _That was Dad.

"Hey, Dad. Get m'message?"

"_Dean, report. Are you alright? Can you walk to the hospital?"_

"Walk? No, been working. Lots. Got, um, got paying gig." Oh, shit, his chest hurt. "Dad, where are you? Something's wrong."

"_Dean. I'm on my way."_

"Tell me where. Meet up."

"_I'm coming to you. I'm already on the road. I'll be there in thirty hours. You wait for me."_

His eyes were too heavy to keep open. "S'pose to be, um, Alabama. Pretty sure. Dad would know. Think I'm in trouble."

"_Don't worry about that. Can you tell Em that I want to talk to her?"_

"Em?"

"Dean? Dean!"

He couldn't answer. There was a hole under him and he fell right into it.

* * *

"So, he looked good." John had picked up the ladle a few minutes before and was pulling it through his fingers rhythmically. It was kind of hypnotic. The hospital room was white on white. But it was quiet. And he had on-demand morphine.

"Yeah. Relaxed, you know. Not like with us. Over in the Free Democracy of Sam."

John cocked an eyebrow at him. "He still with that long-legged blonde?"

"Jessica. Yeah. She's tall, too. Almost up to his shoulder. Over his shoulder when she wears heels."

John started to laugh. "That's got to be a relief. What was the name of his prom date? Remember? He went up six inches that year. She came up to his elbow."

"Mary Ellen Hoffstader. I thought he would trip over her before the night was over."

"How did they dance? The boy was all feet."

"All hands, too. Not sure how much dancing was going on, there, Dad."

"TMI, dude. How far did he go?"

"My lips are sealed." He aimed a full on smirk at his father. It was the first time in years they'd been able to talk about Sam.

John stopped twisting the ladle and looked up. "You were fifteen, weren't you, Ace? When you lost it?"

His cheeks felt warm. Damn. He was blushing in front of Dad. Had to be the morphine. "Are you going to check on him before you go?"

"No, I'll swing by in a couple of months. I'm leaving for Detroit tonight."

"What about Tuskegee? I can leave…"

"Too late. I took care of it."

"Dad, I..."

John pushed himself up from the chair. He twitched the privacy curtain open. Dean knew he was giving himself a view of the room and the hall. "Don't apologize, Dean. You had a 'paying gig'." He made air quotes with his fingers. "You wanted to see Sam. I needed you in Alabama."

"But, I don't… Dad, I was going to go. I'm sorry you had to take care of it."

"Another hunter got wind of it." John scrubbed his face. "Newbie. Thought he was prepared. He wasn't."

"Who? What hunter?"

"You wouldn't know him. Never will now. He died on Tuesday."

"Shit, Dad, what was it?"

"It doesn't really matter, does it? If you had gone when you were supposed to, that hunter would still be alive."

Dean opened his mouth, stopped, tried again. "You think it's my fault?"

"You were supposed to take care of it."

"So, it would be alright if the fugly killed me, but not 'Newbie'?"

"That's not what I said. And you wouldn't have died. I trained you. You would have made it."

"So you are blaming me for him dying? Fine. You know, I can only be in one place at a time. Plenty of hunters die. Are you going to blame me for all of them?

"No, Dean. Just the ones you could have prevented."

"I almost died _here_, Dad. Internal bleeding, nicked lung. If Em hadn't driven to the ER and shanghai'd a doctor, I would have died. Who would you blamed for that?" He checked his breathing. Too hard. Too painful. "Would you have blamed Sam?"

John thumbed the morphine drip. "I wouldn't have blamed anyone. Don't work yourself up. Just do better next time. You can't let your brother distract you." He sat down again and sighed, tapping the cup of the ladle on Dean's thigh. "I don't have insurance under your real name. Do you?"

"Don't worry about it. Vickie's going to help."

"I thought her name was Em?"

"Victoria Barkley." He yawned, warmth spreading up his arm. "Sorry. Curator at the museum. She called in the job. My fee is probably going toward my hospital bill now." He looked toward the window, anywhere but at his father. "So, thanks for coming. Appreciate you staying a couple of days."

"Dean, I…"

"What do you have in Detroit? Em's going to pick me up tomorrow to get the car. I can be there in three days, four days tops."

"No. I don't need help. And I've got an assignment for you here. Something you can do to recoup some of the money you lost from your fee due to," John looked around the room, "this."

"Do something? What—hold a bake sale? Knit chain mail? Build a scale model of Mount Rushmore?" Dean reached out and caught the ladle before it could hit is leg again. "And would you put that ladle down?"

John flipped the ladle and pointed it at him. "Make this into silver bullets."

"That's it? Make bullets?" Dean took the ladle and set it on the bedside table. "And I have to make them with, what, Twinkies?"

John dropped his head but Dean could see him smiling. "You get to use regular tools and a fire. Nothing fancy this time." He stood. "You stay here until you're better. Just call if you need something."

Dean looked back out the window. "Sure, Dad. No problem." He yawned again. "Be careful."

John smiled, teeth flashing white. "That the drugs talking?"

"Nah. Just the country's getting smaller all the time."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Dean sucked on his teeth. "Winchesterland." John handed him a glass of water. "Thank you, Sire."

"Still no idea, but morphine always makes you goofy. Go to sleep. I'll see you in a few weeks." He headed for the door.

"Dad! Wait."

John turned and looked back over his shoulder, eyebrows up. "What?"

"The space isn't too small. I can fit."

"Good to know, Son. Now go to sleep." And he was gone.

Dean knew an order when he heard it. Closing his eyes, he drifted, thinking about parking spaces and expatriates. And for just a minute, he wondered if there was room for another citizen in Sam's democracy. His mouth quirked up. Never going to happen. They'd never agree on anything. Maybe he just needed to move to DeanWorld for a while. Quit remaking himself to fit in John's space. Or Sam's.

There was a knock on the door. He rolled his head to the door. "Come in."

Em breezed in, smiling broadly. She was wearing a white sundress and high heeled sandals. She looked good enough to eat. But what held his attention was the bag in her hand. The smell of grease and hamburger meat was awesome.

He made a gimme gesture. "You get extra onions?"

She sat on the side of the bed, and set out the food. "And bacon. I didn't forget. Oh, and I got you nacho fries. They're really good."

DeanWorld was looking better and better. "You are officially my first citizen."

She looked puzzled, but batted her eyelashes. "Is that a codeword for something kinky? 'Cause I'm really looking forward to having you all to myself for a couple of days."

DeanWorld was fantastic.

* * *

My thanks again to wave obscura and LiaFromBrazil for their invaluable language skills. Spanish translation:  
_No te preocupes, mi amor. No voy a permitir que ella se acerca a ti_ = Don't worry, my love. I won't let her near you.


End file.
